~ serial lives: 22 years of writings & musings

column – 04 / 2016

Childhood memories can be scarce for some of us. Most of my memories are the memories of my sister telling stories of our past. I mostly have memories of her telling me a memory that I ought to have. However, one original self-generated memory of my own, from the past, is the library, the neighborhood library. My first achievement of distinction was the receipt my first library card.

It was an unnerving experience, my initial journey up the imposing steps of our neighborhood library. Those concrete steps lead to a grand entrance, an entrance which was guarded by concrete columns of a faux Doric styling.

I believe the scale, of its exterior and its interior, to be exaggerated on my part because of my then diminutive status. However, there was no exaggeration about the contents of its interior which were timeless. The furnishings were finely crafted fittings, wooden and weighty, and of course row upon row of very tall bookcases filled with meticulously housed books. It was a place of sublime gravity.

In the present, my adoration and frequent attendance-ness, stems from my expectation of a serene public place that is devoted to reading, writing, and thinking.